


Miraris

by Lywinis



Series: Swords and Serpents: An Ineffable Husbands Collection [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 18:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: Crowley's hidden behind his sunglasses for too long.





	Miraris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts).

> bearfeathers said:  
21 for Ineffable Husbands
> 
> 21\. Staring into each others eyes

It hadn't started off as a staring contest. Not really, anyway. Crowley had always been accustomed to watching Aziraphale putter about being Aziraphale, and the angel had always seemed to write it off as something that was just what Crowley Did. It was true that his attention lingered on the angel as he indulged in whatever happened to catch his fancy at the time. Usually it was food, but sometimes, Crowley found himself watching over Aziraphale as he became engrossed in a book, turning the pages as he read avidly, chewing his lip in anticipation.

Either way, he had no idea that the angel had minded.

Because now, he found himself staring at the angel, and the angel staring back, his book on his lap not forgotten — never that — but marked so that Aziraphale could find his way back later.

“Wot.” Not a question, almost a challenge. Crowley had been perfecting the tone for decades, and it was sharp now.

“Do you know,” Aziraphale said, setting his book on the table. “I rather hate those sunglasses?”

Crowley felt himself bristle. It wasn't often that Aziraphale picked a fight deliberately like this, but it wasn't as though he hadn't ever done so. There had been plenty of yelling done in six millennia of co-existing, even as Crowley would likely admit that it was far often less petty than this.

“They're—”

“—terrible, really,” Aziraphale said, tutting almost to himself as he crossed to where Crowley was lounging. Crowley had forgotten what it felt like to have Aziraphale really invade his space, because what was his was the angel's as well, had been for centuries now, but even still...

He flinched when Aziraphale gently tugged his sunglasses off, folding the stems and tucking them on the rickety side table that stood beside the worn patterned sofa that had been Crowley's sort of home away from home since it had been installed in the back room sometime in 1803. Crowley felt the sensation of being watched sizzle up his spine, and really, he hated it.

Hated being seen, hated being bared to the naked gaze, no barriers to hide what he truly was. And yes, Aziraphale knew perfectly well what and who he was, but it had never seemed to stop the angel before now.

Foiling the Apocalypse seemed to have shined up Aziraphale's spine, because it was the boldest thing Crowley had seen him do in a long time. Not brazen, like ordering several desserts right before the Ritz closed its kitchens — he's seen that more times than he can count. Not batting his eyelashes to ask for a favor, wheedling it out of a being with no restrictions on his miracles save that he mustn't use them for the greater good. No, it was boldness, almost as though Aziraphale was taking something like it was a right to him.

He cupped Crowley's face in his hands, the soft palms gentle but insistent as he tipped Crowley's face up to his. Crowley couldn't breathe. His lungs had forgotten, and while he didn't need to do it to remain corporeal, it felt as though he were stuffed with cotton batting and peanut butter, slow and sluggish, sticking in his movements.

“Open your eyes, dear,” Aziraphale said. His palms were radiant against Crowley's cooler cheeks, and Crowley couldn't help but follow the command, something about it an almost imperative.

Aziraphale was beaming at him.

“Lovely,” he said, almost breathing it out. A blessing.

Crowley recoiled, but the pressure of those soft hands kept him grounded, captive, his knees refusing to work as Aziraphale stared into his eyes, the fathomless blues darkening to wine in the low light.

“I mean what I say, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I like your eyes.”

“Shut up,” Crowley said, but it lacked venom, lacked any bite it might have had in the beginning. His glance skipped away, a magnet held at the wrong pole, unable to keep his gaze where it was directed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “You need only be yourself for me.”

“I am,” he hissed, feeling his shoulders pop and his spine crackle, aching to shed this form and go to his other standby, where he needn't talk, just be.

But before he could—

“Oh, I do adore you,” Aziraphale breathed it out again, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss against the corner of Crowley's mouth. Crowley whined, his hands snapping up and digging into the fabric of Aziraphale's shirtsleeves.

“Don't—”

“Whyever not?”

“Not if you don't—” Crowley choked on the words, sitting like stones on his tongue, weighing him down. “Don't say it if you don't mean it.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. It was so soft, and so sad, that Crowley looked up. “My dear boy. I've been so cruel to you, haven't I?”

Thumbs stroked his sharp cheekbones, and Crowley gave a shaky inhale, still feeling stuffed with cotton.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said.

“Of course you do, you're an angel,” Crowley said.

“Not like that,” Aziraphale replied, settling on the couch beside Crowley. When he tugged, Crowley couldn't help but go, gathered into the angel's side and soaking in the warmth. He buried his face in Aziraphale's neck. “Like I should have, long ago.”

“Don't worry about it, angel.” Crowley mumbled, breathing in the soft and comforting scent of paper and ink, tinged with ozone and caramelized sugar.

“Well, I'm afraid I'm a little bit selfish,” Aziraphale said. His fingers stroked through Crowley's hair, and the demon uncurled a little more. “You see, you get to look all you like, and I should like to do the same.”

Crowley paused, looking up at Aziraphale, only to find the angel smiling at him.

“...all right,” he said.

He could work with that. Little steps.

**Author's Note:**

> Doing little drabbles to try and get back into writing. It's hard when I'm this tired. Thank you for reading.


End file.
